THE SAUSAGE BANDIT
He simply couldnt ignore that cat. Not least because the creature had taken up a rather creative hobby: thieving from his quaint little corner shop. But the way the feline went about it was so endearing that being cross seemed entirely out of the question. On the contrary, really.
The shopkeeper found himself eagerly awaiting each performance, filming the caper on his mobile. Later, hed show his wife over a cuppa and they would both be in fits of laughter. Anyway, heres how it all unfolded.
Every time, the cat would park itself outside the open shop doors as if hed just popped by for a breather, definitely *not* plotting any felonies, how dare you even think it. Left and right the cat would glance, making sure the coast was clear. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper, ever the secret agent, concealed himself behind the tall fridge, recording the drama.
With a paw as dainty as a duchess, the cat would tiptoe inside and head directly for the sausage stand. Then, suddenly, like a furry flash, hed nab a sausageor perhaps a fat Cumberlandand bolt for the door. Although truth be told, hunger would sabotage his escape, and hed barely make it five yards from the shop before settling near the bins, ready to tuck in.
The shopkeeper would saunter out and, stopping well short, enquire:
Good, isnt it?
The cat, positively beaming, would look up and meow in agreement.
Right you are, the shopkeeper would reply.
Come back any time.
Now, you might be wondering: why all the sausages sitting there, unsupervised, not in the chiller, and odd ends of frankfurters just lying about? Well, the answers as British as tea with two sugars.
The shopkeeper simply had a soft spota heart as big as Blackpool, really. Hed noticed the cat turned up hopelessly scrawny and wild-eyed, but absolutely refused to approach a human or accept food hand-fed. So, our gent invented a cunning little system.
At first, he placed sausages right by the door, just where the catwhom hed named Oliver (bit Dickensian, that)could steal them and thus keep his dignity intact. Honestly earned, as it were, through a bit of larceny.
It worked like a charm. Gradually, the shopkeeper inched the sausage stash further inside. Eventually, the bounty ended up on the bottom shelf, nearly on the floor, nestled amongst other bits and bobsa veritable feline buffet.
By now, Oliver could have waltzed in and helped himself to whatever he fancied, no questions asked. But, dear reader, its all about the chasethe drama. Pinched sausage always tastes sweeter.
Then our shopkeeper added a water bowl by the door, upgraded to a posh dish packed with the finest cat biscuits, and even set up a sand-filled tray for toilet matters. Next to this was a tiny dog kennel lined with a toasty blanket.
Oliver, though still a bit wary and not one for cuddles, did enjoy a good natter. The shopkeeper would come out after sausage-and-run, strike up a bit of banter, and Oliver would respond between mouthfuls with a polite glance and a proper English miaow.
Recently, something had been puzzling the shopkeeper. Oliver looked altogether plumper, glossier and, frankly, didnt *need* to pilfer sausages anymore. Yet, day after day, hed swipe a couple and vanish behind the newsagents. The shopkeeper tried to tail him a few times but Oliver always gave him the sliplike a ginger ninja.
Determined to solve the riddle, the shopkeeper invested in a smart little camera, streaming live to the laptop atop his desk. And so, one day, mystery solved: from the basement window round the corner, a tiny ginger kitten sprang out and promptly demolished the sausage Oliver had delivered.
The very next dayyou hear me?the very next day you are bringing those cats inside! his wife demanded through tears that evening.
But that was easier said than done. While Oliver had relaxed enough to snooze in the middle of the shop, the kitten was another mattercatching him would require MI5.
Day after day, the shopkeeper watched the cameras as the ginger minnow would sneak up to Olivers water bowl or nap in the kennel, dashing away like his tail was on fire at the slightest hint of human company.
Then, suddenly, everything changed. The shopkeeper heard a peculiar noise coming from the front of the shop. No customers in sight. Emerging from behind the counter, he discovered the ginger kitten on the doorstep, yowling for the world to hear.
Whats up, little man? asked the shopkeeper.
The kitten dashed over, looked him dead in the eye, then trotted off towards the corner. The shopkeeper followed without hesitation. There, behind the building, Oliver lay, groaning. Hed been bitten by a dogdeep bite to the back leg, but had managed to escape.
The tiny ginger nudged Oliver with his head and let out another urgent meow.
Oh, bless my soul, murmured the shopkeeper.
He stripped off his coat, bundled the wounded Oliver inside, scooped up the compliant ginger and dropped him in his jacket pocket.
Shop shut, he drove straight to the vet, waiting five hours in the surgery as Olivers leg was stitched and patched. During that time, he and the little gingersoon christened Sparky, given his fiery fur and cheeky charmbecame firm friends.
That evening, the shopkeeper closed up early and brought home a groggy Oliver and a purring Sparky. His wife was delighted. And what do English women do when theyre elated?
Thats rightring all their friends for a proper chinwag. These situations demand a full debrief, advice, and at least three cuppas.
When she finally emerged, she found her husband, Oliver and Sparky all sprawled across the bed in blissful slumber.
Well, isnt this a sight, she laughed.
And where am I supposed to squeeze in?
Luckily, Sparky obligingly shifted over, then snuggled in and started kneading her belly with his tiny paws.
And thats how everyone found their home.
These days, Oliver and Sparky lounge about the house, radiating feline self-importance, hardly resembling the scrappy street cats they once were. Sometimes, Oliver, remembering his old days, will give Sparky a little wash. Sparky never objects.
And just across the road, beside the cobblers shop, a diminutive grey tabby has set up camp. The assistant from the shoe shop is always popping over to buy her some grub from the corner shop.
Perhaps one day shell bring the tabby home as well. Maybe, just maybe, everyone will be adopted in the end and cats will become so rare youll need a licence and a three-month waiting list (after mandatory training, of course).
What do you reckoncould that actually happen?
